


And I hope to God that you remember me in Heaven

by lomanegra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Future Fic, M/M, Purgatory, Sexual Content, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lomanegra/pseuds/lomanegra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many ways in which Dean will never leave him. Post-series 7 (mostly).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I hope to God that you remember me in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> firstly, thank you to my dear friend Sophia for speeding me along on this and offering her thoughts and suggestions, though I doubt she'll ever want to beta anything for me ever again.
> 
> secondly, there is a major character death [hover for spoilery warning] but this isn't written in chronological order and involves a sort of play on memory.

In the centuries Castiel had spent as an Obedient Warrior of God, he’d watched passively as billions of people had died.  
  
He’d sympathised as much as he’d known how to, of course. It’s just that he _hadn’t_ really known how to.  
  
It’s different now.  
  
It’s different because it’s Dean—and if Castiel manages to live for dozens of centuries yet, his weakness will most likely always remain Dean.  
  
As a testament, Castiel is still using male pronouns to refer to himself simply because of the years he spent with Dean inhabiting a male vessel.  
  
There are so many ways in which Dean will never leave him.  
  
Physically isn’t one of them.

  


* * *

  


The short version and the long version of the story are virtually the same.

Dean was always Dean and Castiel was always Castiel and somehow, despite everything—or maybe because of it, Castiel thinks—they’d remained linked to each other; Dean and Castiel—“Cas,” Dean would say, and his breath would be ragged but firm, pleading.

And right up to the end, Castiel had never been able to deny Dean anything. Most of the time, he found he hadn’t wanted to.

* * *

  
There were always things to hunt, people to save; the guilt and the anger and the desperation never changed that.

* * *

  
Castiel recalls now, as his gaze drifts downward—Earth-bound—the way Dean had nearly collapsed with relief when he’d been reunited with Sam, the way he’d been unashamed in returning his brother’s embrace.

He hadn’t had words to tell Sam about the months he’d spent in Purgatory. Castiel hadn’t blamed him.

He still doesn’t.

* * *

  
He misses, even now, the way things were—the way _he_ was—after transferring Sam’s mental afflictions to himself.

He’d been able to see the world so much more clearly, stripped of all the unnecessary obligations and false information he’d been fed since his Creation. The clarity had been painful and freeing and everything he hadn’t known he’d needed.

Purgatory had ruined him and shaken him apart and pieced him back together in some of the worst ways.

The years he spent on Earth afterward hadn’t helped either.

And now he’s been back in Heaven long enough know he’d never stood a chance at keeping that clarity.

He used to love Heaven.

Now it just keeps him wistful and barely stitched together.

Castiel’s wings ache.

* * *

  
Dean is gasping for breath, the cords of his soul slowly slipping free of his body, a red line of blood trickling out from the side of his mouth.

Castiel wishes for nothing more in this moment than to descend, to hold Dean and tell him he’s earned eternity in Paradise, to smile sadly as Dean spits out what he thinks of _that_ particular destination.

But he can’t, and were Castiel still using Jimmy Novak as a vessel—if he were still in possession of a human body, he thinks there’d be nothing to stop tears from running down his cheeks.

* * *

  
Dean has maybe seconds, and because there’s nothing left he can do, Castiel lets loose all the memories he’s been keeping locked away—away from any of Heaven’s corruption.

If Castiel still had breath, it would be whisked away from him with the force of all the feelings those memories force to the surface.

As it is, his Grace expands and collapses, flaring with all the things Castiel hasn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

He’s surprised the weight of it isn’t enough to sink Heaven down to the earth.

* * *

  
“You really don’t miss Heaven, do you?” Dean asks one time while he’s sitting across from Castiel.

Castiel smiles a little, but doesn’t look up from where he’s pouring honey into plastic sandwich bags. “I much prefer the company of the beings found on Earth,” he replies. There are bees and grasshoppers and golden finches and orcas—and people.

Once Castiel had wondered what was so worth saving about people. But he sees now that they’re okay. They aren’t great nor are they perfect—but they’re okay. And so they’re worth saving, because they’re okay and they make their own mistakes and they learn and grow and redeem themselves. Not always, but certainly often enough for Castiel to have realised why his Father liked them so much.

If nothing else, people are certainly more interesting than angels. Bees and grasshoppers are, too.

Dean lets out a huff of what might be laughter—or maybe self-deprecation. Sometimes he still can’t tell the difference when it comes to Dean.

It doesn’t matter much though, really; it wouldn’t make him love Dean any less either way.

* * *

Castiel is sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed in the motel, tense and alert. Dean looks up from where he’s lounging in the desk chair, looking through John Winchester’s journal. “What’s up with you?”

Castiel looks at Dean pointedly. Surely the apocalypse looming over their heads qualifies as a valid reason to be nervous—although Castiel can admit that feeling nervous is still new to him and his ever waning angelic powers.

Before he can provide any kind of reprimanding answer, however, Sam walks in, clutching a greasy paper bag. Castiel doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or irritated. So he continues to sit quietly, watching the brothers eat their dinner, discussing a case they might take on if they don’t get word of the impending apocalypse within the next day.

He feels like saying they’ve got more important things to do, but he knows the Winchesters wouldn’t be who they are if they didn’t look at all the little details that make up the big picture.

Sometimes he envies that about them.

It makes his slow descent from Grace simultaneously more meaningful and more unbearable.

He leaves them quietly, though not quietly enough to prevent Dean from looking up and catching his eye first.

He doesn’t look surprised.

* * *

Purgatory is quiet—too quiet. Too quiet and too dark.

And then there’s screaming. Hollow, broken screams that ring Castiel’s ears, sending his Grace into restlessness.

He remembers Hell of course—the screaming and the shock of violence and brimstone. But this is different, harsher almost.

Castiel returns to Dean’s side immediately. The man’s face is pale and tight, and Castiel knows Dean is terrified—more terrified than he’ll ever admit to, but terrified enough not to outright deny it if Castiel asked him.

He doesn’t ask.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, and then he pitches forward.

He’s clinging to Castiel’s shoulders; Castiel exhales slowly. “Dean.”

Dean moves to shake himself out of his near-panic, to return to some semblance of stoic impassivity. And then he sighs and leans into Castiel again.

Castiel thinks he understands. There’s no reason to put up a front here, and he can see how tired Dean is—tired of being broken and threaded back together again with words of empty encouragement, with the hope that someday people won’t need to be saved anymore.

Dean thinks the weight of the world is on his shoulders, Castiel knows.

Each time Castiel says his name with quiet reverence, each time he gives up some part of himself to save Dean, each time he doesn’t flinch at the way Dean doesn’t try very hard to understand what he sees now—when he does these things, he’s trying to take pieces of that weight, placing them on his own shoulder, in the pockets of the trench coat Dean kept safe for him.

He’s not sure if Dean notices or not.

But here, now, he holds Dean, tentatively placing a relaxed grip around the man’s abdomen as he cries into Castiel’s shoulder.

If this will take more of that weight from Dean, Castiel is willing to do it.

And if he ends up crying at some point as well, neither of them mentions it.

* * *

“You’re different,” Dean says. It’s not accusatory, merely reflective, musing.

Castiel tilts his head, sitting across from Dean on the floor of an abandoned grocery market. “Did you expect that I wouldn’t be?”

Dean smiles faintly, but shakes his head. “No, I mean—well, you’re more like you were before, y’know, how you were after Sam’s—” He pauses, draws in a shaky breath. “You seemed content enough before we got stuck in Purgatory. Had a bit of a one track mind sometimes, I think. Now—the wall is repairing itself, isn’t it?”

Castiel doesn’t answer for a minute. Dean isn’t exactly right; when Castiel had taken in the damage from Sam’s mental wall collapsing, it hadn’t been an exact replica of what happened to Sam. Castiel doesn’t have that same kind of mental wall, so there isn’t one to repair. But Dean is right in some ways, at least. His mind is filtering out the effects of Castiel’s apparent madness.

He isn’t all that happy about it, to be honest. Everything is starting to seem so much more muddled now; harder to discern, harder to bear.

Castiel hasn’t figured out exactly why it’s happened yet, but he has some ideas. Nothing he wants to share yet, if ever. Instead he says, “I won’t ever be who I was before, Dean.” Too much has happened since then, and even though he’s still an angel, he’s been mingling with humans and other Earth entities long enough to know he can never go back. And, given the choice, he doubts he would even try. “But yes, I’ve—there’s both more and less missing now. This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he admits.

He wonders if his redemption is rendered meaningless now. As if Dean senses his thoughts—and perhaps he does; Castiel is learning that Dean has come to know Castiel nearly as much as he knows Dean—he reaches out and brushes his fingers over Castiel’s wrist. The touch is soft but sure, and Castiel feels his lips curve upward in that way they do only for Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. He’s looking at Castiel with the same kind of intense focus Castiel uses on Dean. It’s unsettling in the best way and he wonders briefly if this is how Dean feels sometimes. For a moment, Castiel almost believes he’s slipped back into that blessed place where--outwardly--his biggest concern is why the bees have been disappearing, even as he wracked his mind to find ways to keep himself from fighting.

He doesn’t know what Dean’s apologising for, but he knows Dean never says those words lightly, so he brushes his fingers over Dean’s and takes the words for what they’re worth.

They’re worth everything.

* * *

It’s a sunny day in southern Wyoming when Dean first kisses him.

He thinks maybe it’s fitting.

It’s a year to the day since they managed to escape Purgatory, and he’s sitting with Dean on a park bench, staring down at matted, dead grass.

He doesn’t know what’s happening right now. He’s about to ask when Dean murmurs, “Cas.” His voice is closer than Castiel had expected his breath ghosting across Castiel’s ear.

When he looks up, Dean’s eyes are half closed and he looks as if he’s about to say something.

Castiel waits.

“There’s something...” Dean starts. He shifts closer and his hand rests on Castiel’s thigh. “I know I’ve said we’re family—and we are, Cas, we _are_ —but it’s...it’s _different_ with you. I...” He licks his lips; Castiel watches, rapt. This moment feels so surreal in so many ways. Dean closes his eyes briefly.

“It’s not what I’d feel for a brother,” Dean settles on, watching for Castiel’s reaction.

Castiel reaches up, his fingers grazing Dean’s jaw; he thinks maybe this is the moment he’s been waiting for. He doesn’t say anything—not yet—but Dean relaxes and his hands cup Castiel’s jaw.

Castiel hasn’t kissed anyone since that one time with Meg. This isn’t like that.

It’s just Dean’s mouth, pressure soft but insistent, confident—and Castiel, keeping up as best he can, parting his lips a little when he feels the wet weight of Dean’s tongue. He knows Dean has kissed many others—and that’s okay; it’s never been his right to tell Dean not to.

He hopes that it’s different for Dean this time, too. He thinks maybe it is. Dean is still cradling his face gently and Castiel has a hand at the nape of Dean’s neck, the other gripping his shoulder.

It doesn’t go anywhere, really. They don’t return to the old farmhouse they’re squatting at and engage in any sort of sexual activity. Nor does the kiss last more than two or three minutes.

But it’s enough.

When they break apart, Dean’s eyes are softer and brighter than they’ve been in a long time. Castiel can feel his face flush a little. “I don’t think I would know how to describe all the things I feel and have felt for you,” he says.

Dean’s lips quirk. “No point in wasting time trying, then,” he replies. A hand circles Castiel’s wrist, and his voice is quieter and maybe a little awestruck when he next speaks. “The way you look at me—I know what’s there. You don’t need to explain, Cas—I get it.” He pauses momentarily, placing a light kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “And—me too.”

Castiel smiles in return.

So, no, the kiss doesn’t lead anywhere in particular any time soon. In fact, they don’t even end up kissing again until three weeks later.

But when they walk home, Dean’s hand is warm in his and even when they return to the house, he doesn’t pull away.

Castiel can feel the human heart of his vessel hammering away quietly.

For once, it doesn’t unnerve him.

* * *

“How—” Sam starts, staring at Dean and Castiel from across the booth of another dingy diner. Castiel knows what he wants to ask, _How did you get out?_

Castiel looks at Dean, but his lips are pursed and he’s staring down at his half-eaten pie.

Castiel fidgets with the sleeve of his trench coat. He says, “Not right now, Sam. Please.” Dean looks up at him, grateful; relieved.

He can see Sam wants to push the issue, but he won’t. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says instead. Castiel nods, Dean snorts.

Suddenly Dean sits a little straighter, a smirk on his lips. “D’ya want to try some pie now, Cas?” He looks at Castiel expectantly. Castiel winces.

At some point, he’d promised Dean if they ever managed to get out of Purgatory that he’d try some of Dean’s beloved pie.

He nods his head and doesn’t miss the look Sam gives him and Dean, but he’s smiling, so Castiel is too.

Dean spears his fork into the apple pie on his plate and hands it to Castiel, watching carefully. Castiel takes the bite, chewing carefully. “It’s very sweet,” he concludes.

He doesn’t know why, but that makes Dean laugh and Castiel thinks he’s never heard anything more beautiful.

And the look on Sam’s face says he agrees.

Dean is still laughing.

* * *

Castiel is laying on the bed, curled into Dean’s side when the man asks, “Can angels just pop up to Heaven and visit people?”

Castiel shifts to face Dean, drawing the covers up over their naked torsos. “No.” He places his hand over the scar on Dean’s shoulder, smiling slightly as Dean shivers. “It doesn’t work like that. Angels are unable to cross the threshold into human versions of Heaven.”

“But—” Dean frowns. “When Sam and I were there, Zachariah...” He doesn’t finish; there isn’t a need to. Castiel knows what he’s going to say.

“It takes tremendous amounts of energy to descend into the humans’ Paradise. It’s nearly impossible.” He scrubs a hand through Dean’s hair. “But it was known, even then, that you and Sam wouldn’t be there permanently. So the threshold was considerably lower, allowing Zachariah and his followers to find you. The Garden is the only place humans and angels can safely occupy at the same time,” he adds.

Dean looks thoughtful, fingers skimming across Castiel’s bare shoulder. “So if I die...” His face pinches up and he lets out soft sigh. “When I die, you won’t be able to visit me?” he asks. He looks disappointed and...scared almost.

Castiel can barely find the strength to say the words. “No.”

They’re both quiet for a long time afterwards.

* * *

Castiel stares blindly at the trench coat Dean is handing him.

It’s been so many months—Castiel hadn’t remembered them; hadn’t remembered who he was or the things he’d done.

But Dean had, and he’s held on to Jimmy’s trench coat for that long and—

Castiel is surprised his knees don’t buckle beneath him.

As it is, only the weight of Dean’s conviction is holding him upright.

He doesn’t deserve this from Dean; he knows that, just as he knows he’d deserved to die.

But he’s selfish enough and loves Dean enough to take what’s being offered, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

He vows then and there that Dean will never have to be disappointed in him again.

Castiel takes the trench coat.

* * *

They’re sitting in a cave, tucked together for warmth, hoping whatever lurks out there isn’t interested in seeking them out.

Purgatory is lonely and cold and chips away at them both constantly. Castiel can feel the ache and confusion slowly slipping its way back into him without his permission.

He tries to think about the way bees settle over the flowers, the smell of hyacinths and rain in the early morning, the sounds of his feet scraping on the floorboards of his cabin back on Earth.

Dean coughs.

There are terrible things here. And no matter how much guilt Dean feels for the things he’d done in Hell, this is different and they both know it.

So many black shapes and black aches and black sounds—reaching down to the pit of Dean’s soul and his own Grace.

Things that make you think you’ve gotten out, make you think you’re safe until they rip you apart and force the truth back onto you.

He doesn’t think they can stand much more of this.

It must be slowly killing Dean; the times he’d thought he was working on another case with Sam, the two of them riding in the Impala.

There’s so much of everything and nothing going on that even Castiel—with the peace of mind he’d managed to find on Earth in his redemption—wasn’t able to see past all of it. And so bits and pieces of his former self slowly return to him.

Not enough for Dean to have noticed yet, but still enough.

“Why would God even make this place?” Dean grits out, shifting restlessly. He’s brittle and pale and everything that makes him Dean is starting to drain out of him.

Castiel silently promises to find a way out of here before Dean is nothing but a broken shell, running on empty.

“The ways of my Father are not only mysterious,” he says, “but often cruel.” He feels a pang of regret saying it, but it’s true. Castiel has long since given up thinking that because God is omniscient he is also benevolent.

Who really knows what He wants, Castiel thinks.

Dean is quiet and the darkness settles over them.

Castiel’s eyes close.

* * *

Dean is kissing the knobs of Castiel’s spine; Castiel digs his fingers into the bed sheets.

He’d never expected Dean to be so gentle. And he isn’t always, but then neither is Castiel.

But right now, Dean’s tongue is hot and wet and Castiel feels too much, the way he always feels too much when Dean touches him. It’s overwhelming, white and hot and not at all dissimilar to the Grace beating and burgeoning inside him.

He’s panting now, his throat feeling tight and constricted as Dean’s slick fingers show him both no mercy and all the mercy that must exist in the universe. Sometimes Castiel wonders how Dean is able to reduce him to this, but the thought requires far too much effort.

He reaches backwards, his hand circling Dean’s forearm. He just needs to—he needs to touch, feel the warm and slick of Dean’s skin, needs to let Dean know he’ll never stop wanting this.

He knows Dean understands, presses face against Castiel’s back, murmurs his name softly. Castiel replies with a choked moan, Dean’s breath heavy and hot against his skin.

Castiel thinks maybe he’ll never really get the hang of this because he always misses that first moment Dean thrusts inside him, so consumed by the weight of his needs and wants. But there Dean is, behind him and moving slowly, his hands gripping Castiel’s elbows. Castiel is grateful.

Dean’s thrusts are even, but his hands are shaking where they’re touching Castiel. He pushes back and Dean makes a soft noise, one of desire and fulfilment and—Castiel isn’t being presumptuous—love.

“Dean.” It’s all Castiel can manage as he feels Dean’s hand wrap around him, stroking firmly.

He shatters underneath Dean and soon enough Dean is breaking apart over him, panting, “Cas,” over and over again.

Nothing else needs to be said.

* * *

Dean usually doesn’t care very much about his birthday, but Castiel won’t let him get out of celebrating his fortieth.

“Cas,” Dean says, “Sam put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Castiel only smiles a little. “He helped.”

Dean snorts, but it’s good-naturedly and Castiel knows he’ll go along with this, even if he has to complain for form—he “has a reputation to keep up” after all.

“We could have just stayed in bed all day. That would have been an excellent birthday present,” Dean assures him. Castiel laughs and Dean catches his elbow, pulls him in for a kiss.

They have a base camp of sorts now. All three of them had been tired of motels and crack houses, so they’ve settled into Bobby’s place—reluctantly. There’s still so much of him here that he knows Dean still thinks sometimes he’ll walk into the kitchen catching Bobby pouring bourbon into his coffee.

Those are the times Dean seeks Castiel out, presses their foreheads together, locks his fingers in Castiel’s hair. Or sits with Sam on the sofa, neither of them talking, but drinking their beers in tandem.

Sam comes in, grinning at them both and pretending to make disgusted faces. Castiel clears his throat.

“How’s it feel to be forty, old man?” Sam quips.

“I can still kick your ass, kid,” Dean throws back.

Sometimes, in moments like these, Castiel can almost forget that they’re all hunters and even when the apocalypse isn’t nigh, people always need saving.

He thinks Dean deserves breaks sometimes. He knows Dean thinks so too, but he’ll never say it out loud.

So Castiel will say it for him.

* * *

Dean looks nervous, his fingers entwining with Castiel’s.

It’s startling to see Dean like this. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but...” He takes a deep breath; Castiel searches his eyes. “Before we—you said you didn’t want to—didn’t want to fight anymore. But you’re still here.” He says the last part unsurely, his voice low and rough.

“You asked me to stay,” he says simply.

Dean’s face contorts in shock and then something akin to anger. “Cas—” he starts.

But he knows where Dean is going with this. So he interrupts. “I want to be with you,” he says, and that’s that.

Dean lets out a breath. “Oh thank God,” he breathes, his grip on Castiel’s hand tightening.

Castiel doubts it has anything to do with God, but he’s gotten used to the expressions humans—especially Dean—use on a regular basis. “I’m glad to be here,” he says.

“Good.”

Dean brushes his lips over his and Castiel wonders if Dean understands the strength of his devotion.

There is nothing in Heaven that rivals the feeling he gets when Dean looks at him like this.

* * *

It must be true that nothing really ever ends.

Because something has happened in Heaven—Castiel doesn’t know what. He hasn’t once gone back. But he can feel the wrath of the angels, feel them searching and seeking him out. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t want to think about why.

He wants to stay in Bobby’s kitchen with Sam and Dean while they eat scrambled eggs for dinner.

He wants to stay pressed to Dean’s side on the sofa, a movie playing quietly on the TV as Castiel studies the lines on Dean’s forty-four year old face.

“What if they find you?” Dean asks. He tries to keep the worry out of his voice. Castiel doesn’t mention that he fails.

“What we always do,” he replies. “Fight back.”

Dean only looks mildly reassured, but Castiel doesn’t know what will happen and he won’t lie to Dean.

Sam creeps up the stairs and leaves them sitting alone in the living room.

Castiel touches Dean’s neck, feels the pulse beating in his throat. “I love you,” he says. And though he’s been back and with Dean for years, he’s never said it.

He’s never had any reason to.

But if the angels find him and they fight and Castiel loses—he can’t bear the thought of dying or disappearing without having said the words aloud.

Dean’s heart rate speeds up and his eyes shift to Castiel’s. He licks his lips. “I—” Another wetting of lips. “You’re something else altogether, Cas,” he says.

That’s better than Dean saying, “I love you, too.”

Even though he knows it means the same thing.

* * *

“Sam!” Dean is screaming, running, choking on the force of his own desperation.

Castiel runs after him. His Grace is restless, pulling him in so many different directions, but he takes a deep breath and stands in front of Dean, stopping him from running after his brother.

“Cas, you son of a bitch! That’s _Sam._ Let me _go._ I need to get Sam. Sammy!” he calls out.

“Dean,” Castiel says and his voice breaks. “Dean, it’s not _real._ Sam isn’t here. Most likely, he’s on Earth searching for a way to get to you, to bring you back.”

Dean stops struggling, but only a little.

This is the seventeenth time Dean’s thought they were back and it never gets any easier for either of them.

“Sam?”he says again, uncertain.

“We’re still in Purgatory,” he tells Dean gently.

Dean falls to his knees and wretches.

“How many times do I have to go through this?” he asks bitterly. But Castiel knows Dean isn’t angry with him. He doesn’t know how to answer Dean’s questions, so instead he places a placating hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I just want to go home, Cas,” he whispers.

“I’m working on it,” he promises.

And he is, but so far he hasn’t liked any of the things he’s come up with.

So he walks quietly behind Dean as they try to find shelter from the black and cold and the indignant screaming.

Castiel almost wishes they’d gotten stuck in Hell again.

* * *

Objectively Dean knows they’ll never save everyone, but it never stops him from berating himself when they can’t.

Sometimes Castiel thinks about how much easier it was when he himself had trouble counting individual lives as significant. But he wouldn’t trade the things he has and who he’s become now to go back to that.

Still, it only gets harder to see Dean like this because now he understands, empathises. It doesn’t matter how many people you save; it’s the ones you don’t who stick with you.

He watches as Dean drinks himself into a stupor, resigned.

Sam has buried himself into unnecessary research so he doesn’t have to think about it.

They make quite a pair, Castiel thinks, Sam and Dean.

He doesn’t bother offering either of them comfort, just quietly walks into the room he shares with Dean, lies down on the bed.

He doesn’t need to sleep, but he can.

So when Dean comes in later, he pretends that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice.

* * *

Castiel stares around him at the group of angels surrounding him, trapping him in a circle of holy fire. Dean and Sam are struggling against their restraints, but to no avail.

“Castiel,” sneers an angel Castiel has never met before. Helpless, he looks for something he can use as a weapon.

There’s nothing.

His eyes scan for Dean’s; the man looking right at him and Castiel feels the human heart of his vessel crack into bits.

He knows it won’t end well.

And then a familiar presence enters his senses. His head snaps toward it.

Standing there is Zachariah, Castiel knows, though the chosen vessel is different; younger, more put together. It’s impossible.

He says as much and Zachariah laughs, his smile wan and cruel.

“How?” Castiel asks.

“I’ve got loyal friends.” Zachariah snorts; Castiel decides it doesn’t suit him. “Very _slow_ friends. But loyal nonetheless.”

Castiel grits his teeth, refusing to beg or to plead.

“I do believe you’ll be returning with us, Castiel.” Zachariah makes some signal with his hands; the posse of angels take their arranged positions. He glances at the Winchester brothers briefly. “I’ll deal with you two later,” he says, almost flippantly.

The last thing Castiel sees from a vantage point on Earth is Sam looking at him sadly, eyes watering, and Dean calling his name fearfully, his face twisted up into rage.

And yet, Dean’s eyes are still full of all the love he carries around with him like an anvil.

Castiel wishes the angels had just killed him outright.

* * *

Castiel looks up from the game of Life that he’s managed to convince Dean to play. “I quite like bonobos,” he says. “I’m glad their genome was sequenced.”

Dean stares at him. “Cas—what—”

Castiel shakes his head and points, indicating that it’s Dean’s turn in the game.

“I’m not crazy,” he says after a while.

Dean starts. “Uh, I know that, Cas.”

Castiel looks at him sharply. “No. No, you don’t.” He watches as a squirrel scurries up a tree and then turns back to Dean. “There are so many things I never bothered to notice before. But I can see them now—and sometimes I get carried away. And I don’t want to be a warrior anymore.”

Dean is still looking at him, lips pursed in thought.

Castiel continues. “I’ve missed so much in the years I’ve been here. Board games, for example.” He shakes his head minutely, unable to fully express the wonders he’s found on Earth. He’s destroyed so many things—so many people; now it’s time to watch creation happen, help it along when he can.

He knows Dean doesn’t really get it, but he can also see by the look in Dean’s eyes that he’s trying to.

Castiel knows how to be grateful for that.

“It’s my turn,” he says, and Dean grins.

* * *

“Fucking witches,” Dean mutters. Castiel silently agrees.

“Did we get all the hex bags this time?” Sam asks, grimacing at the sight of his jeans. They’re covered with blood and cat intestines and dead maggots.

Dean is still ranting about witches are disgusting and “Why can’t they just eat people like normal supernatural, paranormal assholes? Always throwing random body parts at you and casting stupid hexes—” Castiel tunes out of a lot of the specifics of this particular speech, and he shouldn’t find it amusing. But he does.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Can you shut him up?” he asks Castiel.

Castiel questions why this particular task falls to him. Apparently he still misses social cues even when they’re unsubtle. Sam gives him a meaningful look and then glances at Dean.

For all his time among humans, Castiel is still an angel.

But, he thinks, at least he’s an angel who gets to kiss Dean Winchester quiet.

It’s a rare and treasured opportunity.

* * *

This is so much worse than Zachariah killing him or stripping him of his Grace.

Heaven is chaotic, overwhelmed—more so even than when Castiel ingested thousands of souls and started a civil war. He has no idea how exactly Zachariah’s _friends_ had been able to resurrect him—though he knows the tools of Heaven are powerful instruments indeed—but he doesn’t need the specifics.

Zachariah isn’t the only angel who’s been resurrected, though thankfully, to Castiel’s knowledge, Raphael had stayed dead. Heaven would only be worse off with both of them running around. Zachariah is considerably more powerful this time, and he doesn’t quite know how that happened either; the information is still all but irrelevant to him now.

Angels don’t interest him overmuch anymore.

Castiel isn’t dead; he can still feel and see and hear everything—even everything down on Earth.

It makes the situation even harder to bear, and he knows Zachariah has done this on purpose. Because now Castiel has reasons to be interested in the Earth and its people—some more than others.

He’s trapped in a prison; a loop of hundreds of bits of Angels’ Grace. Castiel is far from as powerful as he’d once been—the chances of him getting out are _pretty much zero,_ Dean would say. Though he lacks a human vessel now, he can still hear Dean’s voice—both in his head and down below where Dean is arguing with Sam about something or another.

Castiel tries to pass his hand through the circle of his prison.

It burns.

He does it again.

* * *

Everything is bright and burning and Castiel’s stomach is churning—which isn’t supposed to happen.

They’re standing in front of the Impala.

Dean starts, then stares, and then takes off in the opposite direction, hands clenched into fists.

“Dean!” Castiel holds firm against Dean’s struggling, against his panting for breath.

“Cas, let me go!” Castiel turns Dean to face him. “Please,” he chokes out. “I can’t—I can’t keep letting it get to me, Cas, I _can’t._ ”

Oh. _Oh._

Dean still thinks—“Dean, _Dean._ I need you to trust me.”

“What?” Dean isn’t struggling anymore, but Castiel doesn’t know how to describe the look on his face.

“We’re not—” He picks up a piece of broken glass. “Stay here, Dean. Whatever happens, _do not leave._ ”

“You’re leaving?” Dean asks, and his voice is so small and scared that Castiel blanches.

“No, I’m—I’m trying to show you something, Dean,” he promises.

Before Dean can say anything else, Castiel is slicing his arm open and drawing the angel-banishing sigil onto his forearm. “I’m sorry, Dean” he whispers and slams his hand down on the symbol.

* * *

Sometimes Dean sends prayers up Castiel’s way. But they’re faint and barely discernible.

And even if Castiel could understand them, it isn’t as if he’d be able to respond.

Zachariah is one cruel bastard.

Castiel’s Grace quivers.

* * *

It’s an ordinary night in Bobby’s old house—they still call it that, even though they’re the only ones who’ve been living in it the past three years.

Dean is lounging on their bed and Castiel is sitting on the floor, running his fingers through the stringy carpet.

He can feel Dean’s eyes tracing his movements. “What’re you doing?”

Castiel shrugs.

The carpet is rough and rugged under his fingertips, worn through the years. It’s a dull white colour and Castiel could magic it clean, but he doesn’t. The carpet is part of the house, and the house is part of Dean, and Dean is a part of him.

Dean lifts himself off the bed and sits down next to Castiel, catches Castiel’s hands in his own.

He looks up at Dean.

“You’re trying to simplify and complicate everything again, aren’t you?” Dean says, brushing his lips over the shell of Castiel’s ear.

He thinks he should stop being surprised Dean knows him so well. Because in the same way Castiel isn’t the angel Dean first met in that barn, Dean is also not that human Castiel first met.

Dean will probably always carry himself like he’s the only one who’s made mistakes in his life. But Castiel thinks Dean is done being the person who will always deny that things and people—outside of his blood, of course—are meaningful to him.

He doesn’t usually use words to tell Castiel he understands—his eyes say everything. But Dean can surprise him sometimes, so he answers. “Yes.”

Castiel thinks maybe if he can feel enough of the so called little things again, then maybe—maybe the rest of the world won’t feel so heavy and drowning anymore.

Earth and its Creations are beautiful, but they’re painful—so painful it makes Castiel’s ribcage fold inward, trying to squeeze his heart into pulp. Sometimes Castiel thinks of letting it, but it wouldn’t make anything better. And it would only make Dean miserable, he knows—and that’s the last thing he wants.

Dean smiles, soft and unassuming—these moments where Dean isn’t guarded are some of the moments Castiel cherishes most. “Speaking of feeling things...” Castiel is still looking at Dean, but Dean looks like he’s trying to figure out the right way to say something. “I want...” he continues, then lets out a dry chuckle. “This is gonna sound like every bad porno you’ve ever accidentally watched, but I want—Tonight, I want you to be inside me.” He licks his lips, mutters, “Goddamn, I used to be smooth.”

All Castiel can think is that it doesn’t matter how smooth Dean is or isn’t anymore, his blood is pounding in his ears and something hot and jolting is travelling its way up his spine. “You’re—you’re certain?”

Dean shoots him a smirk. “You want to come find out?”

Castiel tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair, tugs lightly, and Dean groans low in his throat. “All right,” Dean says, hooking his hands under Castiel’s arms and pulling him up.

They fall into the bed ungracefully, and Castiel takes a moment to think so many angels would look at him, declare him Fallen.

But they’re wrong. He’s risen above all of them. In a way that’s far more meaningful than using the power of a god to destroy them all.

Dean is pliant underneath him, pliant but confident. And Castiel wonders if maybe other angels are envious of him—not of his specific relationship with Dean, or even with Sam.

But Castiel feels all these different things—the burn of sugared coffee sliding down his throat in the morning; the slip of saliva and lubricant, the heat and intensity as he pushes into Dean, the sound of their laboured breathing and hoarse moans; the way something heavy but brilliant in his stomach drops every time Dean—and Sam—turn to him after a fight and check for damage.

It’s all so overwhelming—and most angels, they don’t understand it, but maybe they want to. When he’d been in Heaven, maybe all this is that piece he’d been missing.

Back then, he hadn’t figured it out.

But right now, with his hands skating down the planes of Dean’s stomach, and reaching lower—with Dean surging up against him—it all seems so obvious.

He kisses the sensitive spot on Dean’s neck.

These must be the kinds of memories people relive in Heaven.

The humans get a far better deal in Heaven than angels do.

Castiel thinks they probably deserve it.

* * *

Zachariah tells Castiel the whole story, standing just outside the ring that keeps Castiel trapped; how he was resurrected, how he became more powerful, how he was able to create this prison cell, how he managed to usurp Heaven, how and why people support him, what his plans are now.

Castiel doesn’t listen.

He looks down and watches Dean instead.

* * *

Dean is still sitting in the spot Castiel left him, staring at the Impala, when Castiel shows up four hours later.

“Dean,” he says, but his breathing is erratic and blood is dripping from his nose. Dean stands up immediately.

“What—”

“The sigil,” Castiel explains. “It worked. It took a while to get back to you.” He pauses to take a breath, falling against the wall. “It worked,” he says again.

Slowly, a look of realisation crosses Dean’s features. “But...nothing magical has ever—Cas, are we...”

And even though everything hurts and Castiel thinks he might collapse, he manages a small but genuine smile. “Yes, Dean,” he confirms. “We are back on Earth.”

Dean sags against him, then straightens up. “We’re—oh _Jesus,_ Cas, we’re outta there. We’re really out.” He pulls Castiel into a hug, wincing when Castiel groans. “Uh, right,” he says. He glances towards his car. “Oh baby, it’s really you.” He runs a hand along the hood before turning back to Castiel. “We have to get Sam.”

Castiel nods his agreement, not protesting as Dean rather manhandles him into the passenger seat.

It takes them six days to find Sam.

The look on Dean’s face when he first sees his younger brother is enough to make Castiel think the almost five (American) months spent in Purgatory were worth it.

He stays silent, letting the brothers have their moment.

* * *

Sometimes he and Dean still play Twister. Sam plays sometimes, too, but he’s very large and it’s difficult for him to manoeuvre around the mat.

Dean laughs. “Sasquatch playing Twister—it’s like a fucked up kids movie.”

“You _asked_ me to play, asshat,” Sam replies, but there’s amusement in his eyes.

It’s been almost seven months since he and Dean returned from Purgatory, but the two of them still act like it’s the first week much of the time.

Castiel doesn’t blame them; the two of them need each other in ways Castiel will probably never understand. But he’s happy to see them without as much strain on their relationship as there once was.

It will never be easy for them—just as things will never be easy for Castiel—but he knows that just because things aren’t easy doesn’t mean they aren’t worthwhile.

In fact, a lot of the complicated things are what people care about most.

It’s one of the reasons he likes humans so much.

* * *

He and Dean never really tell Sam much about Purgatory, and eventually Sam knows to stop asking.

Castiel tries to avoid telling Dean how they even managed to get out, but eventually he “nuts up” and lets it out because keeping secrets from Dean has never caused anything but trouble and heart-wrenching misery.

It takes him a few weeks, but he does it.

He’d found Eve—accidentally of course, but she hadn’t been pleased to see him.

She all but ripped him to shreds—repeatedly. But she never killed him outright. “It wouldn’t be nearly as rewarding,” she’d said. There was, of course, no way for him to make it up to her. He wasn’t sure he’d want to even if he could.

He hadn’t asked for her help, but when he never resisted her punishments, she’d grown bored. She loved her children, after all. Castiel and Dean were not her children and didn’t belong there, even for food. “I wouldn’t want my precious children to choke on you,” she’d said, sneering.

Her form in Purgatory was different, but somehow still beautiful and terrifying.

He has trouble looking at Dean now, telling him all this. Dean is doing his best to be patient, to listen. But Castiel knows it’s not easy for him.

“In some ways,” he says. “Purgatory isn’t all that different from Hell. There are always deals and prices to pay.” At Dean’s look, Castiel shakes his head. “I didn’t make a deal, Dean. But...imagine the dealings are more similar to the way it works in prison wards, if I’ve understood correctly from the films I’ve watched.”

Dean cocks his head, but he hasn’t left yet or punched Castiel in the face (and Castiel would have let him) so that must count for something.

“There aren’t a lot of valuable things in Purgatory.” He sighs. “Angel blood will go a long way—like cigarettes in prison, right?” Dean nods a little, but his face is pained.

“So, what, when you were disappearing, you were siphoning off your blood and giving it to dead monster freaks?”

Castiel holds himself still against the sharp edge of Dean’s voice. “Yes. After a few months, I was...able to obtain necessary information.” He almost laughs. “It turns out most beings in Purgatory know a way to get out, but they’re unable to because it requires certain...procedures from those still living on Earth.” He turns his face away from Dean’s completely.

“Six people died,” Castiel says quietly. “Six probably innocent people. I didn’t—I didn’t do it, but I knew it was possible. I knew what was at stake.”

Dean stares, his eyes hard.

Castiel goes on. “They thought they were doing a simple demon summoning. I don’t even know if anything besides the two of us escaped. I don’t think so; it didn’t feel like it. I’m not proud of any of this, Dean.” He wrings his hands together.

“I wish I could give you more of the specifics—Eve was thorough in wiping information from my mind and I let her,” he says, his voice flat. “I don’t blame her for not trusting me with that kind of information. Look what happened last time.”

He doesn’t even notice his eyes are wet until Dean’s thumb touches his cheek, wiping a tear away.

He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to tell Castiel to never look at him again.

“I’m angry. But I’m not as angry as I should be,” he admits, and Castiel can hear the self-loathing in his tone. “It was terrible there.”

Castiel apologises. Dean shrugs.

“It’ll take time,” Dean says, and Castiel doesn’t know exactly what that means, but it’s better that he’d expected. More than he deserves.

“Least you didn’t let an army of almost unkillable douchewads out this time,” Dean jokes, but it falls flat. Castiel sucks in a breath, but Dean is right. He’d been naive and stupid and—Dean rests a hand on his arm. “Thank you.” His voice is shaky and he steps away and Castiel watches before following a few steps behind.

Dean’s forgiveness means more to him than almost anything.

And he can’t regret getting Dean out of a place that was killing him from the inside out.

He knows Dean knows that, appreciates it too.

The sun seems a little brighter when he looks up at it.

* * *

“Damn, I’m getting old,” Dean complains.

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re millennia old. Cry about it, why don’t you? Most of those years you dicked around in Heaven; you didn’t have to put up with all the shit that comes with a human body, Cas. My back aches. _From sleeping._ ” Dean makes a face.

Castiel doesn’t point out that hunters rarely live as long as forty-three in the first place. But Dean can tell what he’s thinking.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, his voice gentler. “I know. Honestly, never thought I’d live this long either.”

“I’m glad you have,” he tells Dean. He thinks maybe it came out a little shy, but the way Dean is grinning at him now, Castiel doesn’t mind.

Dean’s voice is gruff when he replies. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

And then he pulls Castiel towards him, deftly unbuttoning the flannel shirt Castiel had borrowed from Dean.

Dean insists he’s still young enough for sex, though.

Disagreement is the last thing he’ll get from Castiel.

* * *

Castiel had never planned on returning to Heaven.

Being here now, he remembers everything he never realised he despised about it.

On Earth, Dean is lying on their bed, the fake FBI badge he’d had made for Castiel clutched in his hand.

* * *

Castiel has been withering away in all the ways that matter inside this cell for four years on Earth when a renegade hunter stabs Dean in the throat.

Castiel’s Grace vibrates with anger and rage and everything he’s ever felt for Dean at one point.

Sam is trapped in a basement, his hands tied to a post, a dirty rag in his mouth. Castiel knows Dean will never forgive himself for not saving Sam before he died. He’ll spend years in Heaven telling everyone to piss off and that he doesn’t deserve the happy memories.

Sam will tell him to get over himself.

Castiel watches blood gurgle from Dean’s neck, helpless.

* * *

Dean sends a silent prayer up to Castiel.

_I dunno if this will work, if not, it probably doesn’t matter. I know you knew anyway. I love you. Huh. It’s not as scary to say as I thought it would be. But maybe that’s ‘cause I don’t have to worry about the look on your face when I say it. I wish...I wish I did, though. It’s not the same without your comments and inability to not annoy the crap outta me. It hurts, Cas, I—_

__Castiel refuses to let this happen, prison be damned.

 _Dean,_ he thinks, sends his thoughts careening downward.

He hopes Dean can hear him.

* * *

Maybe it’s God again after all this time, maybe it’s the force of Castiel’s love for Dean, maybe it’s pure luck.

But he’s suddenly free of his prison, sending ribbons of frayed Grace (he hopes it hurts whoever it all belonged to) and soon he’s spiralling down towards Earth, towards Dean.

Jimmy’s body has always been connected to his, and now will always be his, even as it rots below the ground. He takes less than a second to feel his way around the vessel and adjust to human portions, healing the ills of the dead. The next second, he’s at Dean’s side, cradling the man’s head in his lap.

He knows, even as he strokes Dean’s greying hair, that he’s too late.

Dean is dead and something in Castiel dies with that knowledge, nearly swallowing him whole.

Even if he’d still had the power to bring Dean back, he wouldn’t.

Dean would never forgive him for that. Not after everything—not now.

His own desire isn’t worth betraying Dean again.

So he does all he can do now.

He wraps himself around Dean’s lifeless body, sobbing into a rapidly cooling shoulder.

Castiel hopes Dean doesn’t mind that he’s ruined Dean’s favourite shirt.

And then he realises that of course Dean doesn’t mind because Dean is dead.

He can only hope Heaven loves Dean as much as Castiel does.

He doubts it

**Author's Note:**

> re: Purgatory. Since Supernatural took the liberty of just completely missing the point of Purgatory and making stuff up, so did I.


End file.
